The Burning Life
by Morwen Maranwe
Summary: After being invalided from the Army, John is living a despondent life with a wife who has no love for him any longer, yet he is desperate to make their marriage work. Then he meets a teenage boy who has the ability to make his life seem less meaningless. Though he knows that it's wrong, John can't stop the relationship from growing out of control.
1. The Slow Burn

Notes: Thanks to Writing Keeper for the beta, and to J. Puddles for the Brit-pick. This story contains inappropriate teacher/student relationships, infidelity, and lots of smut. Sherlock is 16 years old in this story, which may not be legal in some countries. The rating of this story will slowly go up to M. This story also deals with implied child abuse/neglect, but none of it happens on scene. I will try to add tags to the beginning of each chapter as I post.

 _I was all smiles when I signed on that dotted line.  
After these thousands of miles, I don't know what in life is mine and what's taken from me.  
There's so much I could say, but I don't know where to start…  
I took the bullet and I never thought twice…  
There's nowhere left to go when it's over,  
I took the bullet, I took the heat, I took the fall.  
I guess I was foolish to believe after all._

 _The Burn – Framing Hanley_

John Watson never thought he would end up hating his life at 35.

He never thought that he would end up discharged from the Army with a bullet wound in his shoulder and nerve damage in his arm that has effectively ended his career as a surgeon. He never thought he would have a psychosomatic limp in his leg that forces him to walk with a cane, night terrors that effectively make him look a decade older than he really is, and a most inconvenient case of PTSD. He never thought he would be married to a woman who can't even look him in the eye anymore, after only ten years of marriage.

He never thought that he would end up a disabled war veteran with a medical degree, teaching advanced biology at a fucking secondary school.

To be fair, though, he never thought he would have to leave his life in London behind because his wife is a serial adulterer, either.

That is why he is here in this mediocre town, after all; where he is too far away from London for the steady, fast-pace lifestyle he is used to but close enough for weekend visits. A fresh start—that is what he had asked Mary for. A new life for them. If they moved away from her job, her so-called "friends", and all of the men she slept with on a regular basis, John had promised her that their lives would be better. _He_ would be better.

He had promised her.

And, by some miracle, she had agreed. He constantly wonders what eventually made her change her mind. She might have finally messed around with the wrong man and had an angry wife chasing after her; she might have given a man the wrong impression and he had expected her to leave her husband and start a serious relationship with him. John doesn't know, and, frankly, he doesn't care. All he knows is that now he's stuck in this God-forsaken town with a woman who can barely stand to be around him.

He sighs as he turns off his car and opens the door, stepping out into the dreary morning. The gravel of the car park is wet and slick from the early morning rain; his cane hits the ground first to make sure it is solidly in place before he leans his weight on it and begins walking. Somewhere behind him, he hears a shout and turns to find Mike Stamford coming towards him, waving a hand eagerly and smiling too widely for such an ungodly hour on a Monday morning.

Mike is just about the only good thing in this situation. He and John have been friends since they were at university and have kept in touch over the years. When he told Mike about the situation with Mary and how he thought a move might fix things, Mike had been quick to offer up information about an available position at the school that he currently worked at. With John's medical degree and credentials he already had his foot in the door, though he did have to side-step some potentially awkward questions about why he would take a job in such a different field from what his degree was in. He didn't think that telling the head teacher of the secondary school that his marriage was falling apart during his job interview was proper job-related conversation, or that he thinks a new town where she doesn't know anybody will prevent it from crumbling completely.

It isn't really any of their business, anyway.

"Excited about your first day?" Mike asks when he catches up with John, throwing an arm around the blond man and making John wobble as he tries not to put too much weight on his right leg.

John just smiles at him politely and makes a vague sound in the back of his throat. He doesn't really know how to answer Mike's question, so he doesn't say anything. Is he supposed to be excited to be here, at the bottom of what has essentially become the rubbish pile of his life? He keeps quiet, though, because he is grateful to Mike for helping him out. If Mike hadn't made the offer, John would probably still be stuck in London, getting cheated on by his wife and keeping a small number of odd hours of work because all of the clinics around him were completely staffed and not looking to hire anyone full-time. A hospital wouldn't touch him once they had one look at his history and medical discharge from the Army; cases of long-term PTSD aren't exactly what they want in a doctor who is supposed to be keen enough to make life and death decisions in an instant.

"I know it's nothing like you're used to," Mike tells him, clamping his hand down around John's shoulder in a reassuring manner before letting the smaller man go, "but this is a nice, quiet town and I think you'll actually enjoy working with the kids."

"Yeah," John agrees half-heartedly. "You're probably right."

They walk across the car park in silence for a little while, and the only sound between them is the steady thumping of John's cane against the wet ground before Mike clears his throat suddenly.

"There is something that you should know about your schedule, though," he says to John, looking away from his friend sheepishly.

John frowns in confusion, thinking about the time blocks and years he has. They gave him everything from year tens all the way up to sixth formers, and each class's lesson plan was made accordingly. It had been trying for someone with no prior teaching experience, but he had enjoyed the challenge, happy to finally have something to occupy his mind since being discharged. "Am I going to have to rework my lesson plans?" he asks, somewhat apprehensively. It had taken him a while to finally get down all of the material he wanted to teach and he doesn't think he'll be able to change anything on such short notice.

Mike shakes his head, still not looking John in the eye. "No, nothing like that," he reassures. "It's just that, one of your students, he…" Mike trails off, and John's frown grows. He is sure to be adding to the deep lines that already mar his face, but he hasn't really been able to help it these past few months.

"What is it, Mike? Spit it out, already, you're making me nervous!"

Beside him Mike huffs out a small laugh. "It's nothing serious, really. It's just, there's this kid that goes to school here—his name is Holmes—and he's, well…he's something else."

"What, like—"

"Gifted," Mike cuts him off. "Brilliant, but completely and utterly strange. He, ah, doesn't exactly have a lot of friends, and he's even managed to make a few of the teachers—well, a great number of the teachers, actually—despise him."

This shocks John; the fact that there are teachers in this school who can be said to _despise_ a child is unsettling. "And I guess you're telling me this because I have him on my timetable?"

"Yeah, I checked for you before you came. I had figured you would, since you're teaching advanced courses to the upper sixth formers." Mike trails off for a moment but then gives John a big, forced smile that John thinks is meant to make him feel better. It doesn't. "It's no big deal. I just wanted to warn you because he…likes to cause trouble. Intelligent as hell and sharp as a tack but there's this thing that he does…well, you'll see. Just don't let him rattle you, no matter what he says."

So, John begins his first day of school nervous as hell about coming face to face with a child. As each class passes by without incident and he finally looks down at the timetable for his last lesson of the day and sees that Holmes is on the list, he steels himself. He was a soldier, for God's sake; an Army doctor. He has been to war, been shot. He can certainly handle anything a teenager can throw at him.

 _Besides_ , he thinks as his next class begins to shuffle in and John stands at the front of the room, nervously shifting his cane from hand to hand, _how troublesome could this kid possibly be?_

Very troublesome, as it turns out.

John makes it to the end of the class without incident, and thinks that Mike must have just been taking the piss—trying to make him nervous about his first day teaching. He is able to spot the Holmes boy right away, not even needing to take attendance to know which student he is. As soon as the student walks in, he takes a seat as far away from all of the other kids as possible and huddles into himself. Even if it weren't for the anti-social behavior, John can tell just from looking at the thin brunet boy that there is something that sets him apart from the rest of his peers, something _different_ about him. And when the teen looks up from his desk with startling-coloured eyes, John can see that there is a definite sharpness that isn't common for teenagers his age, a sort of knowing gleam that seems to penetrate John's defenses.

The man can easily understand why teachers are put-off by him.

But despite all of the trepidation that John has been experiencing during the day, the teenager in question stays quiet throughout John's class, undisruptive. A part of John had taken Mike's warning to mean that Holmes was going to be some sort of trouble-maker who would try to disrupt his class any chance he could get, but John never once has to tell the student to behave or quiet down; Sherlock Holmes sits in the back of his classroom and for all intents and purposes is completely invisible.

Halfway through the lesson there is a knock on John's classroom door and the head teacher, Ms. Thompson, opens it cautiously, peeking in to see if she is interrupting anything. John silently waves her in as he continues his lecture. When he gets to a stopping point, he lets the class read from their texts as he limps across the room to meet Ms. Thompson by his desk. She had been the one to interview him for the position, and he finds that she is friendly and easy to talk to. When he reaches his desk, she smiles warmly at him and asks in a hushed whisper, so that she doesn't disturb his students, "How is your first day going?"

He thinks it odd that she has waited until the end of the day to stop by and ask him this, when he could have been having problems beforehand, but he pushes that thought aside. "Yeah, good, great," he whispers back, a little awkwardly. The students themselves have been undisruptive and well-behaved, but he just doesn't know if this field of work is something that he can stay interested in for long. He has never wanted to live his life behind a desk.

"Good," Ms. Thompson says, reaching out a small hand to rub tentatively down John's arm in a friendly manner. "I'm so glad that you're enjoying teaching here."

He doesn't know what to say to that, so instead he asks, "Do you happen to know any good restaurants in town? Thinking about taking my wife out this weekend."

Ms. Thompson's cherry-red smile droops slightly at that, but she tells him, "Oh, yeah, loads." She launches into a list of her favorite restaurants, which John quickly drowns out as his eyes roam over his class, making sure they are all reading. When he gets to the Holmes boy, he sees that the brunet is staring back at him, a steady look that unnerves John. He turns his attention back to Ms. Thompson quickly.

"Well, I just came by to make sure everything was okay, Dr. Watson," the head teacher is saying. "If you need anything, just let us know." She gives him one more bright, charming smile and drops her voice just a tad lower. "You know I'd be happy to help you with any problem you have. You don't have to worry about asking."

"Yeah, ta," John says, walking her over to the front of his classroom so that he can open the door for her. His cane makes a loud thudding noise in the silence of the room as it hits the ground in a steady rhythm, but he has long since gotten used to the sound that follows him everywhere he goes.

Ms. Thompson leaves and John continues on with his lesson.

By the end of the class, John is laughing at himself for being taken in by Mike's little prank and he finds himself relaxing for the first time that day. As all of the students file out of the room, John lets out a sigh of relief, proud that he has survived his first day of teaching relatively unscathed. He turns towards the tables, intent on straightening the room up when he suddenly stops short, brought to a halt by the single solitary figure that is left behind in his classroom.

Sherlock Holmes most definitely has what John can only describe as a piercing gaze. His blue-green stare is intense and off-putting, especially when he isn't blinking. John has to remind himself that Holmes is only a child, and there is no reason to be unnerved by him.

"Was there…something you needed, Sherlock?" John asks uneasily, despite all of his best efforts to appear unaffected by the strange boy.

"Did they warn you about me?" the student asks him quite suddenly, the question seemingly coming out of nowhere. The young teen's voice is deep and settled already, for someone who looks so young.

"What?" John says, because he is taken aback by the brunet's straightforwardness.

If Holmes notices John's confusion, he doesn't comment on it. "You're new but you're good friends with Stamford," the younger male states, as if he is explaining something obvious to the man. "It makes sense that he would warn you about all of the hazards of the job. And you were watching me during the entire lesson, as if you were afraid I was going to jump up and bite you in the arse."

"No, I wasn't," John says quickly, alarmed at the allegation. He has been warned about school policies on harassment and proper classroom etiquette with students. He was told that lawsuits are made out of lesser things than what this young man seems to be accusing him of. "No one has said anything about you to me," he assures in his most authoritative voice.

It doesn't seem to be convincing enough.

"How very professional of you," Sherlock says, and it sounds as if it is meant to be an insult. He stands from his table, hitching his book bag over one shoulder and moving determinedly towards John, looking almost predatory in his intent. He stops in front of the teacher and John notices that they are very nearly the same height. "Your sense of honor is quite admirable, but I'm afraid it's not going to get you very far in life."

John gives the boy a stunned look, astounded that anyone could be so rude to someone they don't even know, someone who is supposed to be respected in this particular setting. He is beginning to see why this kid rubs the other teachers the wrong way. "Now just wait a damn second!" he shouts, forgetting himself for a moment and frowning deeply at the student, angry. "You can't talk to me like that, I'm your teacher! And you don't know a thing about me so—"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Holmes cuts him off rudely with a roll of his eyes, sounding almost bored.

John is shocked by the question coming from the boy's mouth. It feels like being punched in the stomach. "Sorry, what?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" Holmes urges, and it sounds as if he is growing impatient.

John is so stunned that he doesn't even notice he is answering. "Afghanistan," he chokes out and then seems to remember himself. "Sorry, how did you know…?"

"Please," Holmes scoffs and then launches into an explanation that makes John's head spin.

"Your haircut and the way you hold yourself clearly says military, as does the fact that your face and hands are tanned but there's no tan above your wrists or below your neck." The boy points to John's hands and then up to the man's neck, his finger impersonally close to the teacher's body. "It shows that you've been abroad recently, outside in the sun a lot, although not sunbathing. But the head teacher called you _Dr_. Watson, so Army doctor, then. Obvious. You've been recently invalided home from Afghanistan and your therapist back in London thinks that your limp is psychosomatic—quite correctly, I'm afraid."

John thinks he may end up having a heart attack, the pounding in his chest is so fast. "Psychoso—?"

"Yes," Holmes cuts him off, not even bothering to let him finish the word, the answer is so apparent. "It's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic; wounded in action, then."

 _Christ_ , John thinks to himself, an uneasy, nauseous feeling descending quickly on him. _Who the fuck is this kid?_

But the boy isn't nearly done.

"And let's not forget the nightmares," Holmes continues, unaware that John is on the verge of having an anxiety attack from having his whole life—his deepest, darkest secrets—spread out in the middle of a poorly lit classroom by a rail-thin teenager who looks like a strong breeze could blow him over.

"How could you _possibly_ —?" John argues, and he is proud of himself because at least he has the strength to sound angry and affronted, even if it obviously isn't enough to deter the brunet.

"You look tired, Mr. Watson," Holmes explains, cutting John off once again. It's getting kind of old, that. "But not from just one or two nights spent up worrying about your new job or moving to a new city. Weeks of not getting an adequate amount of sleep, possibly months." He gives his teacher a knowing stare that seems to hold a hint of pity in it, underneath all of the arrogance. "You've been to war and you were wounded in action, of _course_ you have nightmares."

John opens his mouth to say something else but the Holmes boy seems intent on never letting him get a single statement in his own defence out. This time he doesn't even wait for John to speak before he is cutting the man off once more.

"Then there's the move and the career change to try to salvage your failing marriage."

"The what?" The kid is talking so fast that John's brain can barely keep up.

"You are obviously new in town—you were asking about good restaurants—and this is clearly your first teaching job. You have that look about you that new teachers have at the end of their first day, wondering if it is always going to be this awful," he explains without being prompted. John feels like he can't breathe. "Let me assure you right now—it is. It doesn't get any better than this, sorry. All of the students are absolute idiots; you're just going to have to get used to it."

John doesn't even try to speak anymore—he knows it would be pointless to even muster the energy anyways. So he settles instead for gaping at the boy. At least he manages to keep his mouth closed.

"Your wedding ring is old," Holmes says, looking down at John's hand where it is resting on one of the shoddy tables at the front of the classroom. The man quickly moves it, hiding it behind his back, but it seems that the teen has already gleaned what he needs from it because Holmes doesn't even slow down. "Ten years, give or take some, but it is also filthy. It's not even shiny anymore. You haven't cleaned it in so long that it's become dull. That tells the story of your marital status right there."

The boy gives him a quick once over and John feels distinctly uncomfortable all of a sudden, as if Holmes is rifling through John's clothes while the man is still wearing them. "Violated" is the word that comes to John's mind. He can feel that piercing gaze take in all of him in one sweep from head to toe—his blond hair, greying at the edges and disheveled from a long day of work, his powder blue button down, still crisp and without a single visible crease despite his tiring day. The sharp eyes then slide across John's dark olive cardigan and down his khaki trousers to his brown oxfords, lingering along the way on his aluminium cane.

"You're a military man who takes pride in the way he looks and always strives to be clean cut. So why would you let something you wear which other people can see be that uncared for? You're unhappy," Holmes answers his own question, not even pausing. "Now, it could be that it is _you_ who is the one who cheats, but that's unlikely. The head teacher is a very well-endowed, attractive woman and you never once let your eyes drop any lower than her face, even though she was clearly flirting with you." He frowns at John, as if he is judging the man and finds him lacking. "It shows that you still have some sort of commitment to your wife. Besides, I would assume that being stuck with a disabled veteran who has lost any future prospects in a prestigious medical career and can't even sleep through the night isn't exactly the life that your wife saw for herself when she married you. So, chances are good that it is _she_ who is cheating on _you_. Yet despite this, you're still with her, so it's not a stretch to assume that you have moved away from home in an effort to salvage the relationship." The boy gives him another sharp, penetrating look before adding, "No wonder you're friends with Stamford; you two have so much in common, what with the cheating wives and all."

John is stunned speechless. Absolutely speechless. His mind is buzzing with a million thoughts—a hundred different emotions—and he wants to say something imposing, something that will let the kid know that none of what he has just said is true and that John would appreciate it greatly if the teen never spoke to him that way again, thank you very much.

But he opens his mouth and all that comes out is a pointless, "You said I had a therapist." He sounds dazed and dumbfounded even to his own ears.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp and a wife who commits serial adultery, of course you have a therapist," Holmes asserts flippantly, as if none of what has just transpired between them is a big deal. "I would say that I know enough about you to form a fairly accurate opinion, don't you think?"

John is taken aback by the gall of this boy. Never in his life has he ever been flayed open so keenly, dissected so accurately. It's remarkable and painful and true. Every single piece of it.

"That," John says, licking his lips and squaring his shoulders, "was amazing."

Holmes takes a breath as if he is about to say something, but then he seems to hear what John has just said. His sharp mouth snaps shut with an audible click of his teeth and he stares at his teacher suspiciously for a long moment, not speaking. And then, hesitantly, he asks, "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was," John says with a small nod of his head. It may have been astoundingly rude and completely unnecessary and uncalled for, but that doesn't take away from the brilliance of what the teenager standing before him has just done. "It was extraordinary— _quite_ extraordinary."

This time it is Sherlock's turn to stare at John in incredulity. "That's not what people normally say," he declares skeptically. Then he turns on his heel and walks straight out of the classroom door before John can say anything else, leaving the man wondering what the bloody hell just happened.

Dinner at home is a quiet, uncomfortable affair. It usually is, lately, when he and Mary still eat together at all. Sometimes one or the other doesn't have the fortitude for it and they make some excuse to not dine with one another. But now, being in a new town with no friends and nothing else to occupy them, John knows they will be spending a lot of silent, awkward dinners together.

"How was your first day?" John asks his wife from across the table. It might as well be a chasm between them.

Mary looks up at him for a moment, as if surprised by John asking that question. The fading sunlight streaming in through the window behind her catches in her short, bright blonde hair and John remembers that there used to be a time when he would have thought she looked beautiful just then. He might have even leaned across the table and kissed her, just because he could. But those days are long gone between them and so John just goes back to looking down at his dinner.

"It was fine," Mary says, somewhat haltingly, as if unsure of how she should respond. "Dr. Patel was right; I got along really well with all of the staff at this new clinic, and they use the same database as the one in London, so I didn't need a lot of training."

"Good. That's good."

Silence descends upon them once more and John can't stand it any longer so he speaks again.

"My day went well, too. I think this move was a good choice, Mary. I really feel like—"

A scoff from Mary interrupts him. She follows it up with a derisive, "Oh, John, come off it."

"What?" John asks, not understanding.

"We're going to be just as miserable here as we were in London," Mary explains, a frown marring her thin face. "I hate this place. I didn't want to move here. Just because we had a good first day of work doesn't mean that everything is going to be magically sorted."

"You _agreed_ to this move, Mary—" John stresses, voice rising, because he doesn't feel like taking the blame for forcing Mary to do something that they had both made the decision to do.

"Because you didn't give me any other choice!" Mary interrupts him again, pitching her voice above his. "You won't grant me a divorce, what else was I supposed to do?"

John stares hard at her, trying to keep his temper in check. He ends up having to close his eyes when he speaks to her, so that he doesn't have to look at her for a moment. "You told me you would give us one more chance," he reminds her, voice soft and slow. The anger bubbles up inside of him, threatening to choke him with its toxicity, but he has had much practice at arguing with Mary and he is able to rein it in. "That's what you said, so that's why we moved."

Mary's lips press into a thin line, as if there is something that she wants to say but she is holding it back. She does that a lot when they argue, John notices. "Yeah, well, it turns out that I can't stand you now just as much as I couldn't stand you before we left London," she tells him in a steady voice. They are biting words that are meant to cut deep, but they hardly have any effect anymore. She's said and done so much worse to him in the past. He simply stares at her, not rising to the bait.

It seems she is yearning for a row, though, because when he doesn't respond to her the way she wants, she continues to prod him.

"You bore me, John," she tells him, looking him directly in the eye, and she sounds as if she is talking about the weather. He can't be sure but he thinks he even sees the tiniest lift of the corner of her lips. Not for the first time in the past few years, he thinks that he doesn't know who this person sitting across from him is. She used to be so warm, so loving; now she is cold and detached, a stranger. "Everything about you bores the life right out of me. At least in London there was a spot of excitement. In this place, we just have each other."

"It used to be enough," John says, instead of rising to her bait. His voice is steady and sure but his heart is so tired and worn. He doesn't let her see that, though. He takes a calming breath, swallowing down everything that he wants to tell her, and doesn't say anything else. He wants a drink in the worst way, a few fingers of scotch or a double whisky—anything to numb the hurt and anger—but he pushes that aside, too. He has purposefully kept the bottle of bourbon tucked deep inside of the kitchen cabinet, pushed to the very back corner, half empty now even though he had purchased it only a short time ago. If they are trying to start over, then John figures that he can try to be better, as well.

"A long time ago. When you were a different person," Mary explains. "But now…" she pauses for a moment and John can hear everything that she doesn't say. ' _But now you are nothing. But now you're just defective. Broken. But now you are useless. The limp, the Army, the career. You're one disappointment after another after another.'_

She doesn't have to say it because he knows it, deep down, where it wears at him and eats away at his pride, his self-esteem, his will. She doesn't have to say it, but even if she did, John wouldn't argue with her because she is right, she is right about all of it, and he doesn't have the strength to fight her anymore.

It still hurts, though, and he works hard not to let her see that, not to let her see how deeply she cuts him with her words. He pauses for a moment and takes another breath, and when he exhales all that is left is the anger, white-hot and burning deep within him.

"I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment to you, Mary," he says, standing from the table and clenching his fists tightly, one hand gripping the handle of his cane until his knuckles are white. He would never hit her, but their personal possessions have never been so lucky. "Really, I am. But I'm not ready to give up on this marriage, even if you are." He turns on his heel and marches—as well as he can with his blasted limp—out of the dining room. His back and shoulders are tensed and straight, and his posture and emotions are military through and through.


	2. Standing Outside the Fire

Warnings: Mention of a miscarriage in passing. Small episode of PTSD, though it is not described in detail. More failing marriage dynamic.

Sherlock Holmes is indeed a strange child. After Mike's warning, John is told about the teenager from the other teachers that Mike has introduced John to throughout his first week at the school. He has found, though, that most of the warnings come from teachers that Sherlock seems to particularly hate—which is a lot of them, granted. However, John has yet to really have any problems from the kid during his class, so he doesn't put too much stock into the stories everyone is telling him.

For the most part, Sherlock is quiet throughout John's lessons. He sits at the back of the room and never speaks to anyone. Most days he looks as if he isn't paying the least bit of attention to what John is teaching but whenever he hands back his homework or tests everything is always correct. John doesn't know if he has ever given the kid anything but full marks, and there are even a few times that Sherlock hands back his work and has corrected some of John's questions or pointed out a flaw in the material.

John can easily see how something like this can grate on some of the teacher's nerves, but John thinks that it is fascinating. Every time Sherlock comes into his class, John finds himself watching the brunet more than any of the other students, wondering just how vast that supposedly superior brain is to everyone else's. Many of the teachers agree that Sherlock is indeed alarmingly intelligent and frighteningly perceptive but no one can really say for sure exactly how immense his knowledge is because the boy never talks to anyone.

While John teaches, he tries not to look directly at Sherlock as much as he had that first day. Once he has given the class their work and he has gone back to his desk, though, he can't help but let his eyes wander over to the teen.

Sherlock is lanky and just slightly taller than most of the other boys in his year, but he seems younger somehow; his face is softer and his body movements somewhat less mature than his male peers. He has a shock of dark curls that are usually messily tousled and look in need of a slight trim. He is frighteningly skinny for a child of his age and his skin is pale and unblemished. The clothes he wears look well-worn but comfortable and he changes between styles constantly. One day he wears something fitting for a teenager his age that can best be described as "street clothes" and the next he is wearing newer-looking dress shirts with black slacks that hug his slim hips along with smart looking shoes that are nicer than any pair John has ever owned.

As striking as the youth looks in comparison to his classmates, no matter what he is wearing that day, the most noteworthy thing about him are his eyes. They sit below two rather thick eyebrows and are a strange, changeable colour that John can't help but stare at, trying to pinpoint. However, it is not only their stunning colouring that catches John's attention but the look behind them. There is a keenness in the sharp gaze that is penetrating and leaves one feeling exposed when he deigns to look at their way, and John can understand why some teachers are put off by him. His eyes seem to hold a wealth of knowledge and secrets that give him an air of maturity beyond what his body looks like. He is simultaneously so young-looking and yet much older than he seems.

It is a fascinating contradiction.

"Is he still texting you?" John asks Mary one evening, though he already knows the answer. Saw it for himself, with his own eyes, on the screen of her mobile. A number without an ID in her phone. The only one in her contact list that doesn't have a name attached to it. He is pacing the room frantically, hobbling to and fro with his cane, a restless energy building up inside of him that he doesn't know what to do with. He feels like he might be going crazy, living through this same hurt time and time and time again.

"You said that you told him to stop," he accuses her, not even bothering to look her way. He doesn't think he can stomach the sight of her right now. "You said we would start completely over after the move. No secret texts, no ringing you up on your mobile, no flirting, no cheating. You promised me."

Across the room from him, Mary is exasperated and looks like she's at her wits end. Like she is the one who this is hurting. "He just had a question about the clinic back in London, John!" she explains, her voice shrill and loud. "I'm not talking to him again!"

John continues pacing, stabbing the end of his cane into the plush carpet harshly, but he glares at her now, wanting to have her look him in the eye when she lies to him. He won't make this easy for her. "We changed your mobile number, Mary," he reminds her calmly, sounding far more collected than he feels. "You gave it to him again. How else would he have it?"

Mary makes a noise in the back of her throat like she has just stepped in something foul, and her face matches the sound. "Maybe one of the nurses at the clinic gave it to him!" she shouts, throwing her hands up. "I gave my number to Teresa, in case she had any questions after I left."

John just scoffs because he's heard all of her excuses by now. He isn't fooled by them anymore. "Yeah, that's really convenient for you," he spits out in anger. "Fuck, Mary! What do you take me for? I'm not an idiot, no matter what you might think."

"God, John!" Mary yells, tangling her hands in her short hair and pulling, a habit she has picked up whenever she is frustrated and angry. "I didn't text him or ring him, okay? I didn't give him my number. I don't know how he got it or why he decided to text me. I let you move me away from my home, my job, and my friends. I let you change my mobile number. Why would I do all of that just to have him ring me again?"

She thinks she's so clever but John knows better. "Because you clearly can't keep away from him!" he states, his voice booming in the still of their house.

For a long moment Mary just stands across the room from him, staring at him with such anger and disgust on her face that he can't remember why he had ever thought she was beautiful. She lets the silence stretch on for an indiscernible moment and when she speaks again her voice is soft and broken, and he can hear tears behind it.

"I hate you, John," she tells him calmly and John isn't surprised by it; he knows it's the truth because she's said it many times over the past couple of years. "I hate what you've done to my life, and I hate what you've turned me into."

John simply glares right back at her, not fooled by her hurt for even a moment. "Yeah, well, I could say the exact same thing to you," he says to her coldly before he grabs up his car keys and leaves his house, sick of the sight of her. He drives around until he finds a pub and spends the next few hours drowning his anger and hurt in whisky, wondering how he let his marriage—his _life_ —get this bad.

John catches Sherlock smoking on school grounds once, after the day is over. The boy is sitting at the edge of the teacher's car park, seemingly waiting for nothing. There are hardly any vehicles left—it's rather late in the day—and Sherlock simply sits on the pavement that borders the car park, staring off into the distance. John has to walk by him to get to his vehicle, and as he comes closer he can't help but frown at the boy and say, "You shouldn't do that, Sherlock. You're on school property."

Sherlock turns to look at John, his face blank and his gaze penetrating. "There's no one around for it to bother," he says off-handedly.

"It's against school policy," John argues. "Plus, you're a little young for that habit, aren't you?" Another teacher had made mention that, although Sherlock has just entered sixth form, he is taking all of his A-Levels at the end of the year and they had placed him in lessons with older students. While John hasn't checked to find out if it is true, it makes sense when he thinks about the boy's less mature physical appearance compared to the other teenagers in his upper sixth form classes.

Sherlock just smirks at him, as if there is some little joke that John isn't privy to. It is the first time John has seen anything close to a smile on the kid's face and it accentuates Sherlock's rather full lips nicely. "I'm old enough for a lot of bad habits, this being the least worrisome, I assure you," he tells John as he takes another drag as if to prove a point.

John doesn't really know what to say to that so he shifts his weight uncertainly, shuffling his cane along the pavement. "Are you waiting on someone to take you home?"

"No," Sherlock says simply and continues smoking, staring out across the car park.

John waits for him to go on but the silence only stretches. After a long moment, when Sherlock still won't speak, the teacher prompts, "Then what are you still doing here?"

"Talking to you, obviously," Sherlock responds, his tone snarky and the smirk back in place.

John tries not to show his irritation. He closes his eyes for a brief second and inhales, his head twitching slightly to the side. When he opens his eyes again he no longer feels as if he is about to yell at the infuriating student. He licks his lips. "Yes, but you didn't wait around after school all this time just to listen to me lecture you about your smoking habit," he says.

Sherlock's smirk only grows, heedless of how he is irritating John. "That is certainly correct." He shrugs his thin shoulders and takes another drag of his cigarette. "I guess you can say that I'm waiting around school for the same reason that you are."

"Which is?" John prompts, even though he knows he shouldn't.

"You obviously don't want to go home," Sherlock says blatantly, sparing John a quick glance and then looking off into the distance again.

John huffs beside him, shuffling his feet in his irritation. His aluminium cane scrapes along the ground gratingly. "And how could you possibly know that?" he asks, annoyed.

For the first time Sherlock turns his attention fully to John, penetrating the older man with those strange eyes of his. "You row with your wife," he states plainly, as if it is all so obvious. "Constantly."

John is just about to ask him how he knows that but the boy interrupts him with a wave of his hand. "She cheats on you; of course you row with her," he explains before John can say anything. "Because of this, you usually spend a couple of extra hours after school in your classroom, grading your papers and taking more time than necessary coming up with quizzes and homework for the next day. You want to spend as little time as possible at home with your wife. That's also why you come in early every morning."

John doesn't really know what to say. It is true, all of it, completely, but he knows that telling the boy he is correct isn't exactly something he should do. So instead he ignores everything that Sherlock has said and replies with, "You share the same reason for waiting around the school after hours, then, do you?"

"Something like that," Sherlock says and his face has gone shuttered and emotionless.

"The clinic is hosting a blood drive next month and I told Marsha that you and I would spend the weekend walking around downtown passing out adverts for it," Mary tells him one Saturday afternoon. John has been sitting in his chair enjoying the newspaper while she has been bustling around the house, cleaning up from their past week. At her words, though, John looks up at her from behind the paper, frowning.

"Mary, I won't be able to do that," he argues, angry that she would do such a thing without consulting him about it first. "My leg—" he begins, but she cuts him off with a scoff.

"You and your sodding leg, John," she says with a roll of her eyes. "You didn't even get shot there—I don't understand why you complain about it so bloody much."

He bites back the words that spring into his mouth immediately. Even though he curses the damn limp every day of his miserable life he can't help but get irrationally defensive about it when she talks like that, like he's faking it or something. He takes a deep, calming breath and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them back up he is composed once again. "You don't have to understand. You just have to have a little consideration and not offer me up to do unnecessary jobs."

It's quite simple, really, and he can't comprehend why she doesn't get that.

"Fine, John," she says and he can tell she is angry now, glaring at him. "I thought you would be happy about the time we would spend together but I guess I was wrong. I'll be out all weekend, then."

She leaves the house without another word and he sits in his chair with a glass of scotch in one hand and his cane pressed against his twinging leg, surrounded by an oppressive silence.

He takes the opportunity of a free weekend to meet up with Mike for a few drinks. He gets to Mike's local early and has a couple pints on his own, enjoying the loud sounds of the pub that have nothing to do with him.

"How are things with the missus?" Mike asks when he finally shows up, throwing himself down into a bar stool next to John with a sigh and motioning to the bartender with one hand. Mike comes here so often that the wizened man behind the counter doesn't even have to ask what he drinks. Just pours it and slides it along the bar top to Mike.

John sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "Not any better than they were in London. Worse, maybe. At least back in the city she had friends to blow off steam with." He looks into his pint of beer dejectedly. Is this his third, fifth? He doesn't know anymore. "She doesn't know anyone here so she spends a lot of time at home. We're driving each other round the fucking bend."

"Sorry to hear that, mate," Mike says, and he sounds sincere. If anyone knows what John is going through, it's Mike. "I'd tell you that she could ring up Rebecca but," he pauses for a moment, as if he is choosing his words carefully. "I don't know how I feel about those two becoming friends. They'd probably chatter on about what horrible husbands we are and give each other tips on how to mess around behind our backs and not get caught." He suddenly winces, as if he has just heard what he has said. "Sorry. I shouldn't talk about Mary like that."

John just laughs, though, and it feels nice to do it. He feels almost human again, with a few beers in him and a good friend sitting next to him. "No, it's all right. It's true," he agrees with a self-deprecating shrug. "They'd probably end up comparing notes or something."

Both men laugh perversely at that and then trail off uncomfortably. They may make jokes about it, but the pain is very real, and they can't forget that.

John sighs and stares deeply into his pint again, as if it holds all of the answers of life. For some people, his sister included, it does. He almost wishes he were one of those people right about now. It would be nice to be able to leave everything behind day after day, drinking it away. "God, Mike," he says with a tired sigh. "Why do we put up with it?"

For a moment Mike looks like he is about to answer, but then he goes quiet. Then he says with a shrug and a sigh of his own, "Because we love them, I guess."

"Do we?" John asks, surprised.

"Well…we loved them once," Mike amends. "That's why we married them." He smiles flagrantly and for a split second John can see the young man he had known all those years ago, back in uni. "Every time I think about leaving her, all I can see is that teenage girl who used to worship me. I keep hoping that girl will come back. That's why I stay," he tells John, the smile growing in size but also in sadness.

John nods. He can understand that. "Mary was the same way," he agrees, and he feels a smile of his own coming on. "God, did she love me back then…but then I went and got myself shot and now she can barely stand to look at me. She thinks I'm a joke. An embarrassment to her. The end of my career, the limp, the PTSD, the nightmares, the miscarriage we went through a few years ago. To her, I'm just one disappointment after another. Why wouldn't she cheat on me?" He pauses for a moment and then says wistfully, "She used to not be able to keep her hands off of me. Now…you know it's been over a year since we've had sex?"

Mike chokes on his beer and splutters. "Blimey, mate. That's an age," he says with something akin to pity in his voice.

"You're telling me," John says ruefully, draining the rest of his pint.

Mike shakes his head, a look of disbelief on his face. "That's got to be rough. Although I can't really talk. Becca and I hardly touch each other, either. But at least it's more often than that." He grimaces, probably at the thought of not getting off in that long, and takes a long swig from his pint.

"She said that she didn't like doing it with me. That I couldn't even give her a proper shag." The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them and he instantly wishes he can take them back. He must be more sloshed than he realises if he is wagging his lips this much. He pushes his pint away and decides not to order another.

Mike lets out a low whistle. "That's rough, mate. I can't even imagine how it would feel if Becca said something like that to me."

John just shrugs, as if telling Mike _'It hurts, but you live with it….Well, you don't die from the shame of it at any rate'_. He doesn't say that, though. Instead he says, "Maybe she's right. A few times I've thought about picking up some woman and just having a quick shag in the loo of a pub, just to get back at Mary, but then all I can think about is being crap at it." He frowns at himself in his reflection in the dirty mirror lining the back wall behind the bar. He hardly recognizes himself. "I think I'd feel even worse afterwards, if that were the case. First time I could get back at Mary and I wouldn't even be able to do it properly."

"Literally," Mike says with a laugh, more than a little inebriated himself.

"I'm probably never going to fuck anyone again in my life," John moans dejectedly, slumping down in his seat sullenly. "It's a good thing my hand still likes me and can do it proper, or else I'd go mad."

Beside him, Mike laughs as if that's the funniest thing he's heard all day.

John spends all of Sunday lounging around his new house, nursing a vicious hangover and basking in the silence of Mary not being in. It really is a lovely home in a nice neighbourhood. He wishes that he and his wife were able to enjoy it more, instead of turning it into a battleground for their marriage. He relaxes exponentially during his time alone and by the time Mary comes home that evening he is more than willing to spend a night not rowing with her. So they speak to each other carefully about inconsequential things and dinner doesn't turn into a war zone. John is relieved and happy, and he falls asleep quickly that night once they retire to the bedroom.

Unfortunately his dreams don't care how well his day went. He ends up waking suddenly in the middle of the night, dripping with sweat as he hears echoes of gunfire and men screaming in agony. His breath is coming in deep, heaving gasps that he can't get under control and his leg aches so badly that he whimpers. He reaches a shaking hand down in the dark to clutch at it just to see if there is something cutting into his flesh that is causing such pain. He has obviously been writhing in bed for some time now because the duvet is completely twisted around his body, tangled up in his legs, and Mary is stirring beside him, groaning at being woken up in the middle of the night.

She reaches behind herself to yank roughly at the duvet, heedless of the pain the sharp movement causes in his leg. From the other side of the bed where she is facing away from him, he hears her sigh heavily through his labored breathing.

"Another one, John?" she asks irritably.

"Yeah," John gasps out, his breath still not quite under control. "Sorry."

"Just try to keep it down," she mumbles, already falling back asleep. "I have work in the morning."

A few more weeks pass by in which John tries to settle into his new life. He argues with Mary on a regular basis and becomes a regular down at the pub, even meeting up with Mike every once in a while to share a pint. Mostly, though, he just goes to work and puts a lot of attention into his lesson plans and course material. He has even taken to creating work specifically for Sherlock, something that keeps him occupied and helps the student out. He doesn't grade Sherlock on those particular pieces of work; it is just extra information that he gives to the brunet to further his knowledge. He finds that Sherlock has a passion for human anatomy and physiology, and John is more than happy to share his expertise in that area.

He is surprised that Sherlock soaks up every extra piece of information that John gives him like a sponge and even seems grateful to the man for giving him something more substantial than upper sixth form work to occupy his mind. He takes to asking John for more and more work, and John delights in spending the time finding things that might interest the youth, causing him to stay at work late or come in early some mornings.

A few times, as John leaves school long after the day is over, he sees Sherlock walking about the town, stalking down residential streets or hurrying along the pavement downtown, always with a lit cigarette in his hand or his mouth, no matter where he is at.

John begins to wonder if the boy ever goes home.

The first time he drives into town at night and goes to the small, warm-looking coffee house is because he and Mary have a massive row about the washing up, of all sodding things. John has already been to the pub every night for the past five days straight, and he doesn't much feel like becoming one of those sad old men who spends every night of the week hiding down at his local. So he parks his car in one of the designated spots by the kerb of the coffee house and goes inside, pleasantly surprised by the homey feel of the establishment. He orders himself a cuppa, finds a nice spot tucked into a dimly lit corner towards the back of the shop, and is surprised by the tea. It's excellent.

He drinks it slowly, savoring it. It reminds him of the tea his mother used to make, back when he was little. He has always wondered why hers never failed to taste better, and why he can't ever replicate it. When she was still alive, she swore up and down that she didn't use anything fancy, just PG Tips, but he is positive that it was different somehow.

He lets himself get lost in his memories for a while, winding down from his row with Mary and feeling the tension slowly drift away. When he finishes his tea, it is still a decent hour and he isn't ready to go back home yet, so he orders another and drinks it a bit slower. When he finally feels that he can't possibly put off going back any longer he sighs and bins his Styrofoam cups, leaving the warm glow of the coffee house and stepping outside into the dark.

As he opens the door he bumps into someone who has stopped in front of the entrance, their head down and their toe busy stomping out a cigarette butt on the ground, not paying attention.

"Sorry, mate," John says off-handedly and the person looks up at him. He is surprised to see that it's the Holmes boy.

"Oh, Sherlock," he says, smiling politely. "What are you doing out so late?"

The dark-haired teen stares at him out of his odd-coloured eyes for a second before answering. "I could ask you the same thing, Mr. Watson, but I already know." He smirks and John already knows what will come next. He braces himself for it, but it doesn't really matter. Nothing helps.

"Had another fight with your wife, stormed out, didn't know where else to go," Sherlock says unambiguously, as if he's reading John's life off of a page from some boring play. "It's too late to go to a friend's to talk about it and going to a pub just seems depressing to you. So you decided to get a cuppa; nice, safe, guilt-free. You do rather like your life on the safe side, don't you? Bland, like your clothing and your tea."

John bristles at that. "There's nothing wrong with the way I take my tea, I happen to think it tastes best that way," he defends, stabbing the tip of his cane into the pavement, but then he shakes his head as he realises that his tea is not the most important issue at hand. "And stop doing that," he adds, backtracking. "You're not meant to know so much about a teacher's life. It's not done."

Sherlock just smiles and pulls another cigarette out of a crumpled soft-pack he digs out of his pocket. "That's why most of the other teachers hate me," he mumbles as he places the fag between his lips and lights it. "But not you. It's…interesting." He takes a long drag of his cigarette and for some reason John can't help but stare at his mouth where it purses around the filter.

"How many of those do you smoke a day?" he asks suddenly, because he can't for the life of him think of anything else to say.

"What does it matter to you?" Sherlock responds, a strange mixture of a frown and a smirk settling on his young face.

John fidgets because this isn't really the answer he is expecting a student to give a teacher, and he doesn't know if he should tell the boy to watch his tongue. Said tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip where the filter of the cigarette has pressed into it, and John forgets why he should be mad.

"It's just, I always see you smoking whenever you aren't in school," he says, because if he doesn't do something to make this conversation seem more normal it will turn into something awkward and uncomfortable. "It's not healthy, you know."

Sherlock lets out a derisive laugh that sounds nothing like the ones Mary aims at him when John has said something particularly dense. He finds that he likes the sound of it coming out of Sherlock's mouth. "Mr. Watson, I have a genius level IQ. Do you not think I know that smoking is 'unhealthy'?" He's smirking at John again, those full lips twisted beautifully, and the action looks so natural on Sherlock; it is like he spends his days sneering at those of lesser intellect than he. John thinks that might just be true.

"If you have a genius level IQ, what are you doing at a shitty secondary school like the one here?" he wonders instead, veering the conversation in a completely different direction. He's curious now, though.

"What?" Sherlock asks, caught off guard. The smirk drops a tiny bit and he frowns slightly, as if he is confused by the question.

"If you're so smart, why aren't you off at some fancy private school, getting a better education?" John clarifies, though he knows Sherlock understands what he is asking him.

The smirk is completely gone now and Sherlock stares at John through a blank, expressionless face. Then a small frowns creases the skin between his thick eyebrows and John can see his eyes flicker ever so slightly over the teacher, as if the boy is looking for something, contemplating something. Whatever it is, Sherlock seems to find it, because after a moment's pause he responds.

"I have difficulty adapting to normal social situations and new surroundings," he says, and for the first time ever John hears something in the boy's voice that isn't arrogance or disrespect. John wonders if this is what Sherlock sounds like normally and if what he portrays at school is just a mask. Because if John didn't know any better he would say that Sherlock sounds… _young_. "Even at a secondary school level, where children are supposed to be more mature by this age, you have seen the results of my…peculiarities. I managed to advance through sixth form and that's why I'm taking my A-Levels at the end of the year. But the results of leaving peers of my own age behind were…disagreeable. I'm not good with people. If I were to go to another school, I'm afraid the consequences would be just as…unpleasant, if not more so."

John doesn't know if he will ever get used to such mature-sounding words coming out of a body so young. It is slightly disconcerting, yet wholly interesting. He pushes that aside, though, and frowns at the child in front of him. "So you'll just waste away in this sodding town and throw all of your potential out the window?" he asks a little too harshly, a little too angrily, his hand tightening over the handle of his cane.

Something flickers across Sherlock's face. That unguarded, young expression closes off once more, as if it had never even been there, and John mentally kicks himself for being so brash. Sherlock spares a moment longer to stare at him coldly before he replies, "It seems good enough for you."

He may have deserved it—may have even asked for it—but Sherlock's answer angers him nonetheless. He tells himself that it makes him mad because it is disrespectful and flippant but John really knows that it makes him mad simply because it is true. Everything Sherlock has ever said about him is true and they both know this is, too. Instead of admitting to it, though, his shoulders go rigid and his mouth sets in a hard, thin line, forehead furrowing even though he knows it accentuates every one of his many wrinkles. "Good night, Holmes," he says coldly, draining all affability from his voice as he addresses the student in front of him. "I expect to see you in class tomorrow, not skiving off because you decided to have a bit of a lie in after your caffeine fueled all-nighter."

With that he takes his leave, cane tapping solidly against the pavement as he walks away, not waiting for Sherlock's response. On the drive home, John grips the steering wheel hard and tries not to think about the teen.

He fails miserably.

A week passes by, dreary and wet. He and Mary barely speak at all during that time and so they hardly fight. John has not gone back to the coffee shop where he ran into Sherlock. For his part, the dark-haired boy mostly just sits quietly in the back of his class, not speaking to anyone and—John thinks—not even paying attention to the lessons. As usual, though, when homework or quizzes are turned in Sherlock always gets perfect marks, and seems to devour all of the extra material that John gives him.

The man wonders if Sherlock excels in all of his classes the way he excels in John's. Though the teen seems perpetually bored or devastatingly uninterested during lessons, there is no denying that Sherlock knows his course material. It fascinates John endlessly. Everything about Sherlock fascinates John even though the older man knows that it shouldn't. He tries to tell himself that he is simply looking out for Sherlock's welfare; that he only has Sherlock's best interests at heart. And he believes himself rather easily.

So when he is driving home from work one day in a torrential downpour of rain and sees the strange teen walking home without even so much as an umbrella, he stops to offer him a ride and doesn't think twice about the unseemliness of it.

The boy can't walk home in the rain, after all, he tells himself.

For a moment Sherlock looks as though he is going to refuse John's offer. But the rain is coming down so heavily that the inside of John's door and his arm are soaking wet from having rolled the window down to shout at Sherlock, and John can feel that it is a bitterly cold rain, the kind that stings when it hits skin. It is only another second or two before Sherlock gives in and walks around the car to get into the passenger seat.

"Christ, Sherlock," John swears as the boy all but falls into his car, slinging ice-cold water all over the upholstery and the remaining dry half of John's jumper. "What on earth made you think that you could walk about in this?"

Sherlock huddles into himself in the seat and John can see that his jacket is much too thin for this time of year, aside from being completely soaked through. John quickly turns on the heat and cranks it all the way up as he notices Sherlock shivering.

"I…h-had to get h-home somehow," the boy answers, still cheeky even when nearly hypothermic.

John starts driving again, knowing that the weak heat coming out of the vents will get warmer if he keeps the car moving. Out of the corner of his eye John can see Sherlock bring his fingers up to his mouth and blow hot air onto them, trying to get some feeling back. The brunet's hair is sopping wet and plastered to his forehead in a way that looks like it should be uncomfortable and irritating, but once Sherlock's fingers are sufficiently warm enough his hands go immediately for his pack of cigarettes (which seem to be the only thing of importance that Sherlock strove to keep dry in the rain) instead of pushing his fringe out of his eyes.

It takes the boy a few tries to light the cigarette because his hands are still a bit shaky, but he doesn't give up. John frowns at the road, but doesn't spare Sherlock a glance. It is dangerous to drive in this kind of weather, after all.

"You shouldn't do that, you know," he says, not looking at the teen.

Next to him, Sherlock finally gets the cigarette lit and takes a long, slow drag. John can hear the paper burning as Sherlock inhales. He takes his time exhaling, and John simply waits for his response, frown in place.

"Really?" Sherlock says finally, as he exhales the last bit of smoke. The acrid scent of the tobacco and the thick fog of it fill John's car and he knows he's going to have a hell of a time getting the smell out. As if he knows exactly what John is thinking, Sherlock smirks and takes another, smaller drag and says, "Are you going to stop me, _sir_?"

The last word sounds teasing and John doesn't rise to the bait. He doesn't say anything at all.

Sherlock's smirk grows at John's silence. He shouldn't be able to seem so haughty while he's sitting there looking like a wet cat, hair plastered to his head and clothes stuck to him oddly, making him look skinnier than he seems, which is already bordering on frightful. But he does, and it only grows the longer John stays silent.

"That's what I thought," Sherlock says, nodding as if he has just proven something. He leans back against the seat and takes another drag. "Perhaps your wife cheats on you because you're such a push-over. Did you ever think about that?"

That catches his attention. "What?" he asks—almost yells, really—caught off-guard by such a complete lack of disrespect and common decency.

"You're a push-over," Sherlock repeats, as if John is asking because he simply hadn't heard him correctly. There is a hint of something akin to manic glee in the boy's voice when he clarifies, "Here I am, underage and in _your_ car, smoking in front of you, a doctor _and_ my teacher, and all you have to tell me is 'you really shouldn't do that'. Then when I ask if you're going to do anything to stop me, you shut up. I could light this whole pack up and dump all the ash right here in your car and you probably wouldn't do a damn thing about it, would you?"

John's hands tighten around the steering wheel but he doesn't say anything. He's not sure there _is_ anything to say to that. He doesn't know if it's true or not, but Sherlock has been spot on about everything else he says about John, so why not this, too?

Sherlock takes John's silence as permission to continue harassing him. "How long has she been cheating on you?" he asks bluntly.

"I don't really think that's an appropriate question for you to be asking me," John responds, voice gone hard.

"Tell me how long she's been cheating on you," Sherlock says, voice steady.

John keeps his mouth closed, rather proud of himself. A second later he is speaking, though, and he doesn't even know why. "A while," he says and mother of Christ, why is he talking about this? With a student, no less! "Years. She did it a couple of times when we were teenagers but stopped when we were at uni together. I think she started up again after I was deployed. Definitely since I was invalided back."

God, what is this boy doing to him? He hasn't even told Mike this, and his head is spinning, his blood pounding in his veins. He wants to blame it on the smoke that is slowly filling his car, perhaps a second-hand nicotine buzz if Sherlock's cigarettes are strong enough, but he knows that's not the truth. He keeps trying to lie to himself, anyways.

"I shouldn't be telling you any of this stuff," he says, mostly to himself. "But I just seem to lose all sense of myself when you talk to me."

Sherlock decides to completely ignore what John has said, and maybe it's for the best. "So she's cheated on you practically the entire time you've been together, yet you've stayed with her."

It's not a question. It is a statement of fact, as if Sherlock just needs to hear it spoken out loud for it to make a little more sense. It still doesn't make sense to John. "Interesting," Sherlock says, and takes another drag of his cigarette.

"Where do you need me to drop you?" John asks suddenly, because he is afraid that if Sherlock asks him anything else he won't be able to stay quiet again and this has been embarrassing enough as it is.

"You can just leave me at the coffee shop where we ran into one another the other night. I'll wait out the storm there."

John thinks it's a bit strange that he doesn't ask to be taken home but doesn't comment on it. He only says, "It may be a while before the rain clears up."

Sherlock takes another drag of his cigarette and looks out the passenger window while answering.

"I don't mind the wait."

He and Mary row again that evening and when John leaves—driving away in the rain that is still pouring down—he is half-way to the coffee shop when he remembers that Sherlock will most likely still be there.

He turns his car around and heads to a pub instead, but it takes every ounce of his strength to do it.


	3. I Watch the Flames, Slow and Strange

Notes: I know I never mention specific dates in this story, and I try to keep the timeline vague, but I have kind of pushed Sherlock's birthday forward slightly in the canon timeline. There's no set date to this story, though most of it seems to take place during the fall and winter.

Warnings: Brief mention of a miscarriage again.

He doesn't know how it happens but he ends up running into Sherlock again at the coffee house a few more times.

Well, that's a lie. He knows exactly how it happens—very deliberately, is how it happens.

So deliberately, in fact, that John can fool himself into believing that he truly had no idea that Sherlock would be at the shop at all and isn't it interesting to see him there?

If Sherlock knows the truth—which he always does—he doesn't say anything about it, and John is immensely grateful.

One night, John enters the coffee shop but doesn't see Sherlock anywhere in sight. He orders his usual cup of tea, sits at a table, and tells himself that he isn't waiting. He's just having a cuppa. He isn't looking up expectantly every time the door to the coffee house opens. He isn't checking his watch to see how late it is.

He orders another tea and does not wait around some more.

It is late by the time he decides to head back home. He doesn't usually stay out 'til this hour but he also usually runs into Sherlock earlier, so it's understandable. He is getting ready to leave, gathering up his rubbish and his cane, when the door opens once more and Sherlock walks in, scowl on his face and seeming to be in a terrible mood.

He heads to the counter and orders his usual—something ridiculously caffeinated for this time of night—and then turns on his heel and heads directly for the table where John is still sitting.

"Bad day?" John asks, a little worried. He has seen Sherlock in moods before but the boy seems particularly agitated tonight.

At John's words, though, the scowl slowly leaves Sherlock's face. He looks at John for a moment and the man can see his whole body begin to relax. "Better, now," Sherlock says, and John tries hard not to blush.

He knows he shouldn't be letting his student say things like that to him—hell, he shouldn't be meeting with his student in the middle of the night at coffee houses at all—but he forgets sometimes that Sherlock isn't an adult. The way the brunet speaks and the things that the two of them talk about aren't the type of conversations a normal teenager can understand. Sherlock has a penchant for medical procedures and human anatomy that surprises John and has given them endless topics of conversation the past few days. The handful of times that he has "accidentally" run into Sherlock at the coffee house he has found that they have never run short of things to talk about.

All of that can be rationalized, though, if anyone were to ever find out about their late-night meetings. They aren't doing anything scandalous. John has always made sure of that. Just a student and a teacher running into each other at a coffee house a few nights a week. What Sherlock just said, though, John would think is bordering on flirtatious if he didn't know any better.

So instead he ignores it and clears his throat to cover up the awkward silence that has descended between them. "I didn't think you would make it tonight. It's late," John says, hoping Sherlock will follow the change in subject.

The barista comes up to their table with Sherlock's order and the youth takes it. "Yes, it is," Sherlock says to John, deliberately vague. There is something wrong, John can tell, but Sherlock makes no mention of it. He is unusually quiet tonight and John wonders—not for the first time—what it is exactly that Sherlock gets up to after school hours. Sometimes when John runs into him he is covered in mud or grass stains, and other times he sports fresh or healing bruises along his face. Once he had a gash on his hand that John had to see to with the small first aid kit that he keeps in the boot of his car.

He never asks Sherlock about it, even though the curiosity eats away at him. He tries very hard to keep their conversations to a strictly educational line of topics, and Sherlock's hobbies and interests are not part of that subject matter.

He is so lost in his own thoughts that he nearly misses what Sherlock says next, it is mumbled so low.

"Today is my birthday," Sherlock states, not meeting John's eye. Instead he stares down at his coffee, fiddling with the plastic lid as if he hasn't said anything at all.

"Sherlock!" John cries out, surprised. "Why didn't you say something earlier when I saw you at school?"

Sherlock simply rolls his eyes. "What would have been the point?" he asks with a shrug. "It's not like there's anyone who will do anything for me."

John frowns at Sherlock's unaffected tone. "Well that won't do," he says, mostly to himself as he looks down at his watch. 11:51. "Come on," he tells the boy, standing up from the table and heading towards the counter. The barista rouses herself from her half-sleep and smiles tiredly at them.

"Something else for you two?"

"Let me have that cupcake in the display. The chocolate one," John says, leaning his cane against the counter and pulling out his wallet.

The girl just waves her hand and produces the cupcake. "Don't worry about paying. I'd have just thrown it out at the end of the night anyways."

"No, I'm going to buy it," John insists, digging in his wallet for a few quid. "It's a present."

The barista just shrugs as if to say it doesn't matter to her one way or the other and totals up the single cupcake. She hands it to John and the man immediately grabs his cane as he heads towards the door and exits the shop, Sherlock following behind him confusedly.

"What are you—?" the boy begins to ask, but John cuts him off.

"Get out a cigarette," John interrupts rather abruptly as he stops just outside the door on the pavement. It is a dark night but this area of town is well-lit, the streets lined with tall lamps and eclectic shops that keep odd hours.

"What?" Sherlock asks with a frown, and John can tell he is well and truly confused now. John smiles at this sudden achievement. It isn't often that Sherlock is confused by anything and John thinks that the look on his face is quite adorable.

"A cigarette," he repeats, deliberately not clarifying. "And your lighter."

Sherlock continues to frown but takes a fag out of the crumpled pack he digs out of his pocket.

"Light it then give it to me," John tells him.

Sherlock does as John orders him and then passes the lit cigarette to the doctor.

Smiling widely, John takes the cigarette and sticks it—lit end up—into the center of the cupcake, holding it out to Sherlock proudly.

"Here. Happy Birthday."

"Mr. Watson…" Sherlock trails off as if unsure of what to say. John doesn't want to think that maybe it is because no one has ever given the boy anything in his life.

He clears his throat and licks his lips nervously as another awkward silence threatens to descend upon them but he intercepts it. He jabs his cane into the pavement nervously. "Come on, take it," he says, pushing the cupcake towards Sherlock. "Do you want me to sing to you?"

At that Sherlock grimaces and John can't help but laugh. "No, that won't be necessary. This is sufficient," Sherlock says and then pauses a moment. John can see him blushing in the weak phosphorescent lighting around them only because Sherlock's skin is so beautifully pale. "Thank you," Sherlock whispers to him and reaches a hesitant hand out to take the cupcake from John's grasp.

There is a heavy silence that follows and the two do nothing but stare at each other for a moment until John rouses himself and worries about what this might look like to someone passing by. He clears his throat again and takes a step backwards, away from Sherlock, placing his hands behind his back, linked at the wrists. One hand clutches onto his cane tightly. "Well then," he breaks the silence. "You have to at least make a wish." He indicates the glowing ember of the lit cigarette as it slowly eats away at the paper and turns it into a delicate ash that keeps its shape while Sherlock holds it steady in his large hands.

"No need," the boy tells him and smiles—a true, genuine smile that John doesn't think he has ever seen on the thin angular face. "It already came true."

"So, now that I'm legal," Sherlock says one night as they grab their orders—a tea and a chocolate muffin for John and a double espresso for Sherlock—and head towards a table at the back of the shop, "let's have dinner."

John laughs as he sits down across the table from the teen, propping his cane against one of the empty chairs. "Nice try, Sherlock. You're still my student, and you're only sixteen, so the answer is a resounding 'no'." He smiles as Sherlock pouts. "Besides, I've never seen you eat a meal. I didn't know 'dinner' was even in your vocabulary."

"I'd eat for you, Mr. Watson," Sherlock says coyly and John gets that feeling again, that feeling that Sherlock is superseding all of John's efforts at propriety and is flirting with him in a strange, poorly-attempted kind of way.

John chooses to ignore the flirtatious undercurrent to Sherlock's words, however, and decides to take them at face value. He pushes his purchase towards the brunet across the flat expanse of the tabletop. "Then why don't you start with this muffin and we'll go from there."

"If you must know, I'm down to a pack a day," Sherlock tells him another night as they sit across from each other. He seems to be proud of himself as he says it.

John, though, can't help but be horrified. "You're _down_ to a pack?! You're sixteen years old!" he shouts, forgetting for the moment that they are in a public place. Though "public" is a loose term. Their meetings have been getting progressively later and later, and at this time of night no one is around to give them curious looks.

"Exactly," Sherlock states pointedly, "and at fifteen, I was at two a day. You should be proud."

John just shakes his head in astonishment. "You're unbelievable," he says on a sigh.

Sherlock smiles. "Thank you."

"No, that wasn't a compliment," John is quick to clarify.

That unfamiliar confused look descends on Sherlock's face once again. He shakes his head as if he doesn't understand. "It sounded like one to me."

"You're an idiot," John says fondly, and they both laugh.

"So, do you have a girlfriend, then?" John asks another evening as they are sitting at the table. He doesn't know why he asks it, it's not really any of his business and it's a bit personal for a conversation between a teacher and his student. But the question had just sort of come out on its own.

Sherlock seems slightly taken aback by the query as well. He stares at John with something akin to mild surprise for a second before answering, "Girlfriend? No. Not really my area." He sounds uninterested and slightly disgusted by the very idea.

"Oh, right," John says uncomfortably, calling himself an idiot. What a completely bigoted question to ask in this day and age. He should have known better. He, of all people, knows what it's like to have his sexual preferences assumed—just because he's married doesn't mean he's straight. He hopes that Sherlock isn't offended by his question, but he knows how some of these teens nowadays like to think they are radical activists and martyrs or some such nonsense. "Do you…have a boyfriend, then?" he asks in a lame attempt to cover his tracks. "Which is fine, by the way," he says in a rush.

Sherlock gives him a curious look from across the table, something that John can't put a name to. It seems to be a strange mixture of confusion and wariness but also interest and pleasure, as if he is intrigued and flattered by the question at the same time. "I know it's fine," he tells John, cautiously.

They stare at each other awkwardly from across the sudden stillness that surrounds the table. There is a growing uncomfortable tension that seems to be descending on them quickly and John tries hard to counteract it.

"So you've got a boyfriend, then—?" he starts to ask, but Sherlock speaks before he can even finish his question.

"No," the boy answers quickly, succinctly. He is still staring at John with that strange, unreadable look and his unblinking gaze is unsettling in both its intensity and colour. And he can't be sure but John thinks there is a shameless smile curling the corners of Sherlock's lips, as if he is enjoying the way that John has begun to fidget.

"Right," John says awkwardly, clearing his throat and licking his lips. He glances down at his cup of tea just so that he doesn't have to keep looking at the brunet. "Okay. So you're unattached. Right. Good."

He clears his throat again and looks off across the coffee shop, pretending to read the chalkboard menu that is hanging behind the counter.

"Mr. Watson, what happened to keeping things appropriate?"

At that, John whips his head back around to Sherlock to see the other male grinning at him slyly, an evil, amused gleam in his eye. _The little tosser_ , John thinks. _He's enjoying this!_

John flushes deeply at Sherlock's implication and chokes a bit on his own spit. That is exactly the last thing he needs—someone thinking that he is trying to chase after a teenager half his age. A student of his, no less. People have gone to jail for years because of such things.

"No," he asserts firmly, extremely flustered. "I'm not saying— _no_." He shakes his head to drive his point home but also to clear his suddenly panicky and jumbled thoughts. "I'm just saying, it's all fine."

He stares at the boy when he is done speaking so that Sherlock can look in his face and see that there is no other intent there. He wants to be sure to make this very clear but he doesn't really know what else to say—he never thought that he would have to explain that he is most definitely _not_ coming on to a teenage boy.

Across the table from him, the brunet can't seem to contain himself any longer. Sherlock laughs jovially at John's discomfort.

"You did get shot, though," Sherlock says suddenly on another occasion.

"Sorry?" John asks as he takes an indifferent sip of his tea, undaunted by Sherlock's impudent statement.

"In Afghanistan," Sherlock urges. "There was an actual wound?"

"Oh, yeah," John answers nonchalantly. "In the shoulder."

"Shoulder!" Sherlock crows triumphantly, as if he just found the missing piece to an intriguing puzzle. "I thought so."

John gives him a skeptical look. "No you didn't."

"The left one," Sherlock responds. It isn't a question.

"Lucky guess," John says with a smile.

Sherlock scowls at him from across the table. "I never guess," he states petulantly.

John laughs at his tone. "Yes, you do," he tells the boy.

Sherlock chooses to ignore him in lieu of something more important. "Can I see it?" he asks excitedly. He is almost bouncing up and down in his seat at the mere thought of being allowed to study John's wound.

"Not a chance," the older man responds without a second thought.

"What about kids?"

"Kids?" John repeats, at a loss.

"Yes. You've been with your wife for a long time," Sherlock says, as if it is all obvious. "I find it surprising that you don't have any."

John fidgets in the shoddy little seat at the corner table uncomfortably, his knee knocking into his cane where it is propped against the chair. This isn't a conversation he wants to be having with anyone, much less a student of his. Jesus, not even Mike asks him such personal questions, and they've been mates for years. But here is Sherlock—young and brash and constantly thirsty for knowledge—and John has never been very good at not answering his probing, invasive questions. "Well…" he begins uncomfortably but Sherlock cuts him off with a small sound of surprise.

"Oh," he says, and the look on his young, open face seems to imply that something has just clicked in that vast brain of his. "You can't."

John says nothing, but his silence is answer enough.

"She can," Sherlock continues as if it isn't important that he is laying John's life, his most intimate secrets, out on the table; that he is speaking about them as if they are nothing of importance. Just another simple piece of information about the man. "But there's a problem with you. She resents you for it."

John will never understand how Sherlock does that, but he is completely right again. John doesn't need to tell the genius that, though—he already knows. So instead he explains, "She got pregnant once, a few years ago, but she—we—lost it. She blames me for the miscarriage, too. Seems like she blames me for everything lately." He tries not to sound bitter but doesn't think he succeeds much.

"That's because she's an insecure narcissist who can't take responsibility for anything in her life," Sherlock answers, waving a flippant hand back and forth as if he is explaining away something of little consequence. "If you were to ask her, she would probably blame you for her cheating, too."

"You know," John says suddenly, frowning at the child sitting across from him, "I shouldn't be letting you talk about my wife that way. In fact, I shouldn't be talking to you about this stuff at all."

Not for the first time John wonders what in the name of hell has come over him. What has Sherlock done to him that he can't seem to keep anything from the kid? When he talks to Sherlock, the words come so easily, naturally. It doesn't seem to matter that they are grown-up issues that a child Sherlock's age shouldn't be able to understand. John tells him anything that Sherlock can't deduce on his own, and he never thinks twice about it as the words are coming out of his mouth.

"Maybe," Sherlock agrees with him, a dismissive shrug rolling across his thin shoulders. "But you're not going to tell me to stop, either."

John just sighs because he knows it is true. "How did you get to be so insightful?" he asks with a warm smile.

Across the table from him, Sherlock stares at him in surprise, eyes wide and words gone for the moment. When he seems to have recovered, he tells John, "That's not what people usually say to me at this point in a conversation."

John's smile grows because he can certainly believe that. "What do they usually say?" he asks, curious.

"Well, they either send me to the head teacher's office or they punch me in the face."

John thinks that Sherlock means it to be said with an air of amusement, but the older man doesn't laugh. Instead he frowns and reaches a hand slowly across the table towards the boy. "Is that what happened here?" he asks as he softly touches Sherlock's face, tracing the tips of his fingers along a fading bruise that runs across the teen's sharp cheekbone.

Sherlock looks away from John uncomfortably, taking his plush bottom lip in between his teeth and biting on it nervously. "Yes," he says.

John would ask him who did it but he knows that Sherlock will never tell him. In the beginning, he had tried to get the information out of Sherlock, but the boy had always waved him away from the topic, saying that it didn't matter who it was. So instead he brings his hand back to his lap and says, "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

That makes the brunet glance back at him, frown furrowing the smooth, porcelain skin of his forehead. "What are you sorry for?" he asks, his look one of honest confusion.

It hurts John that Sherlock even has to ask that question.

"That people don't understand you," John tells him softly, his hands fiddle with his coffee cup, wanting to feel Sherlock's soft skin again. He keeps them to himself, though. He shouldn't have touched the boy in the first place. Stupid of him, really. "It's a lonely thing, being different."

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, calculatingly. He seems to choose his next words carefully. "It's also a lonely thing being unloved," he says softly, looking John straight in the eye.

John smiles because he can't deny that. "Well, then, let's be lonely together," he tells the boy and brings his cup to his mouth to take a drink just so he doesn't have to look Sherlock in the eye as he says it.

"That sounds…nice," Sherlock says cautiously but he smiles back at John nonetheless.

They sit there for a moment in a silence that John thinks should be uncomfortable and awkward but really isn't. It is just heavy with things unsaid and he finds that he doesn't like it any better than the other kind of silence, so he breaks it.

"What about you?" he asks suddenly, clearing his throat and licking his lips.

"What about me?" Sherlock asks.

"Kids," John says, as if it should be obvious. "Do you like them?"

Sherlock scoffs. " _I'm_ still a kid, according to you. What does it matter if I like them or not?"

John shrugs and takes another drink of his tea. "Just making conversation."

"Teenagers are horrible, insipid, imbecilic, hormone-driven Neanderthals who think only about fornicating," Sherlock answers him rather suddenly. John thought that he would have to prod the kid a bit more, but Sherlock seems more than willing to belittle his peers. "But children, I rather like."

That surprises him. "Really?" he asks.

Sherlock smiles at him. "You seem shocked by that."

"Well, I just didn't think you would. You're very," John searches for the right word but can't seem to find it, so instead he settles for, "withdrawn."

If Sherlock takes offense to what John has said, he doesn't show it. "Most children of a certain age group have an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and don't know how to judge," he says by way of explanation.

"So then did you have better luck making friends when you were younger than you do making them now?" John wants to know, curious.

Sherlock nods and fiddles with his coffee cup. "Yes, I did. Between the ages of 4 and 6 is when I had friends, before peer groups developed. After that every single one of my friends seemed to find a social group they fit into while I did not. No one wanted to be the only friend of the strange child, and so thus began my excommunication," he jokes with a wry smile.

John frowns at him from across the table. He wants to tell Sherlock that that is a long time to be alone but he can't really talk—he's been alone for about as long himself. And besides, he guesses it doesn't really matter now.

Sherlock's not alone anymore.


	4. All We Need is a Spark to Ignite

Warnings: Mentions of child neglect

John knows he is in trouble the night that he walks into the coffee shop and he sees Sherlock waiting for him at their usual table. He has a cup of John's favorite tea already done up the way that the older man likes it—it's perfect, actually—and a genuinely happy smile on his face.

This is starting to get out of hand now. Actually, it has been _getting_ out of hand; he has just refused to recognise it before this moment.

He can't ignore it any longer, though. They've been lucky so far—they've not seen anyone from the school and Mary has been surprising complacent about John's "nights at the pub with Mike"—but John knows that their luck can't last. Things are going to start going downhill soon and John can't allow that. He has to step up and take responsibility and end these visits between them. He's the adult here, after all.

Sherlock proudly presents John with his tea as the older man sits down warily in the chair across the table, eyeing the younger boy as Sherlock smiles widely at him.

"What?" John asks, suspicious now. "What is it? You haven't drugged the tea, have you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock says with a wave of his hand. "I can't do that with the last drug still in your system. The results would be thrown off completely."

For a second John's eyes go wide because he is afraid that Sherlock isn't joking. He thinks about how strange it is that he knows enough about the teen to believe that Sherlock might very well be telling the truth about drugging John—the mad genius has no compunctions, really. Sherlock just laughs at the look on his face though, the sound loud and bright. John feels himself answering it easily. He can't seem to help it; there is something in Sherlock that rouses all of John's dormant emotions. He hasn't laughed this easily with Mary in years. He hasn't shared the secrets he tells Sherlock with anyone in his life, even his closest, oldest friends. He hasn't felt this _alive_ around anyone in so long, and John's mind boggles at the fact that someone so young, someone so _small,_ could be such an all-consuming force in the world. Sherlock has a spark of life to him that seems almost as if it is ready to burn out of control, consuming anyone who stands too close. There is a frightening genius that teeters on the cusp of something great, if only the boy could have a little bit more time to grow into himself. John thinks Sherlock is an absolute wonder and marvels at his intelligence, his humour, his view of the world every single time the brunet opens his mouth.

"Christ, Sherlock," he says as their laughter tapers off. "You're a loon, you know that?"

Sherlock smiles at John almost proudly and then launches into a discussion of what poisons he would use if he were seriously interested in seeing the effects on John. That then turns into a conversation about how Sherlock would murder him, if he was so inclined. Poison would not be the weapon of choice, the man comes to find out. Apparently it would be strangulation, something more intimate, for John. It doesn't bother John one bit that Sherlock speaks of these things because he knows with absolute certainty that the boy isn't serious. He just has a vast amount of knowledge on dreadfully interesting things that he wants to share. And John will be damned if he doesn't find it all just as dreadfully interesting as Sherlock does.

They pass the rest of the night this way, comfortable and easy. John has completely forgotten the incident when he first arrived, the gut-wrenching thought that he will have to stop these visits with Sherlock because they are becoming too familiar with one another, too… _intimate_ , for lack of a better word. But as they are leaving Sherlock brings the whole thing crashing down on John once again, like a bucket of ice cold water being dumped over his head. All it takes are six little words out of the boy's mouth and John is on the verge of a panic attack.

"Can I have your mobile number?" Sherlock asks him casually as they exit the coffee shop—too casually. As if he doesn't understand just how wrong such a question is. John knows the kid might be a little naïve about certain social rules and regulations but Sherlock is not an idiot. Far from it. The boy has to know that this isn't done.

They stare at one another for a long moment while John tries to formulate a proper response and Sherlock seems to take it as a challenge that he refuses to back down from. His chin is set and his brow is furrowed in concentration, as if he is trying to will John into acquiescing.

"Sherlock," John says, and his voice sounds strained and worried even to his own ears. "I'm not supposed to be doing any of these things, least of all giving you the number to my mobile," he argues. He doesn't understand why Sherlock can't comprehend that what they are doing isn't _normal_ , isn't particularly _right_.

Sherlock, though, is not so easily discouraged. "But what if I get stuck walking home in another storm? Or I get hurt and no one else is around to help me?" he pesters, and his face is determined. "Come on, Mr. Watson, you wouldn't want that on your conscience, would you?"

John takes a deep breath and a step away from the boy, who is suddenly standing very close to him. It doesn't help. So John presses his lips into a thin line lest he say something he regrets and shakes his head. When he feels that he has control over his words again he says, "I can't, Sherlock," and it sounds almost as if he is begging the boy to let it go, to drop it, to give up.

Sherlock doesn't, of course.

"I'll give you mine," he says, as if that will solve the whole issue.

John is surprised to find himself laughing at the ridiculousness of the child in front of him. "That doesn't make it better," John tells him.

"Please?" Sherlock persists, and John doesn't think he's ever seen this particular look on Sherlock's pale, handsome face—this look of sadness, of anxiety. It makes him look even younger than he already does. "It's just that…I get so lonely sometimes and I have no one to talk to. No one else understands me the way that you do."

And that's the heart of it, right there. John knows that it's true because he thinks he might feel the same way about Sherlock, strange and wrong though it may be. There is no denying, though, that the two _get_ each other. And Sherlock has no one—that John has seen, at least—that he spends any amount of time with at all. John knows how lonely that can get.

He's lonely, too.

So he sighs, and before he knows what he is doing he is reaching out for Sherlock's mobile. He brings up the boy's contact list (it is painfully short) and adds his name and number into it. He doesn't know how Sherlock does this to him; how Sherlock seems to break down all of his walls, all of his barriers, all of his morals. John gives in to him so easily. He thinks that he should realise by now that it's pointless to fight the kid; Sherlock always wins.

"Use it only for emergencies or if you are absolutely bored to death with nothing else in the world to do, do you understand me?" he tells Sherlock. The tone of his voice is harsher than his words, but he needs Sherlock to understand. "This doesn't change anything between us," he stresses, frowning at the boy as he passes back the mobile like he is angry at him but, really, he's just angry at himself—for giving in, for not being stronger, for needing something that he shouldn't. "I'm not your mate, Sherlock. Remember that. I'm your teacher."

Thankfully, Sherlock doesn't smile in triumph like John thought he would. Instead he simply frowns down at his phone as he takes it back from John. "Then why are you doing it in the first place?" he asks, long pale fingers softly caressing the touchscreen, over John's new entry in his contact list.

 _I don't have a single bloody idea_ , John wants to say because it is the God's honest truth. He doesn't want Sherlock to know that, though. "Because I worry about you, and I want to make sure that you're okay," he says instead because that sounds safer. "Now remember: emergencies only."

Apparently, everything is an emergency to Sherlock. He texts John constantly about the most nonsensical things. John knows he should be at him for not listening to John again and for not taking the man seriously. Secretly, though, John thinks it is all rather endearing, and something ridiculous flutters in the deep recesses of his stomach whenever he looks down at his mobile and sees that Sherlock has messaged him again.

Sherlock also takes John's acquiescence of his mobile number as permission for him to dispense with all formalities between them. He begins calling John by his first name in texts and when they meet at the coffee shop. Thankfully he has kept to addressing John by his proper title while still on school property so John lets it go. Sherlock wouldn't listen to him if John asked him to stop, anyways, and at least this way John can think that he is allowing Sherlock to get away with it.

Their meetings at the coffee house quickly begin to grow longer, their conversations deeper and more personal—the exact thing that John had tried to avoid in the past. Now, though, he finds that he wants to know everything about Sherlock, all of it, and he can't believe that he had ever denied himself the chance to learn more about the boy.

"My father was a mechanic," Sherlock tells him one night when John pesters him about his home life. The teen has never said a single word about his family and John is indecently curious. "A great one, once. A long time ago."

This surprises John. He had thought Sherlock's family would be more…well, more like him. "What, like," John flounders around for words a bit, unsure of what exactly to say, "He worked on cars?"

Sherlock smirks. "Not exactly. More like he worked on missiles." That makes infinitely more sense to John. "He was an engineer. One of the top specialists in the world. But like I said," he goes on with a shrug of his thin shoulders and something that sounds like a sigh, "that was a long time ago, before the drinking. Now he just spends his days on benders down at his local. He's bladdered most of the time." Sherlock frowns and looks down at his coffee, not meeting John's gaze. "Actually, I don't think I can remember a time he hasn't been completely pissed."

"Oh," John says, uncomfortable. He hadn't really expected Sherlock to open up quite so much, and he is unsure of what to do with such personal information. He's used to Sherlock knowing his deepest, darkest, most shameful secrets but he hadn't ever expected to know any of Sherlock's. He doesn't know what to do with the information. "Wow, that's, er…" he stumbles over his words and trails off pathetically.

"Yes," Sherlock simply replies, as if John has said something different entirely.

"Well, what about your mum?" John asks quickly to try to cover up the uncomfortable silence that is threatening to fall quickly between them.

"My mum?"

"Yeah. What does she do?"

At that Sherlock shrugs again and still doesn't look up to meet John's eye. "I imagine she does whatever she wants," he tells John, fiddling with the rim of his cup. "She certainly did ten years ago when she left us. If I remember correctly, I think she was a scientific researcher. Herpetology, maybe. I don't know for sure, no one ever talks about her anymore." He pauses and gets a far-off look on his face, as if he is thinking very hard about something. "I think she left on a scientific research expedition and told my father that she wasn't coming back home afterwards. But I can't really remember; it was so long ago," he finishes with a shrug and a drink of his coffee.

John doesn't know what to say. Out of everything that he expected to hear from Sherlock about the boy's family, this most certainly isn't it. At least now it makes more sense that no one was around for his birthday, that the clothes that he wears sometimes make him look like a waif, that he is stick-thin and smoking a pack of cigarettes a day at sixteen. The kid doesn't really have anyone to take care of him. John doesn't mean to say it because he knows Sherlock despises being pitied, but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"Oh, God, Sherlock. I'm…I'm sorry."

At that, Sherlock finally looks up at him, his frown now one of confusion as he regards John from across the table. "Why?" he asks. "It's not your fault that she left. You didn't know her and you barely know me. Her leaving didn't kill me, I've managed to survive. What do you have to be sorry about?"

It amazes John how Sherlock sees the world. All of that misery, yet he doesn't dwell on it. He seems to realise there is nothing to be done about it and he accepts it, then he moves on. He doesn't linger, doesn't sulk. It is strange to see that behaviour in a teenager of his age. "I dunno," John answers him with a helpless little shrug. "I guess it's just one of those things that people say in situations like this. Societal norms and all."

That catches Sherlock's curiosity and the look that John is so used to seeing falls over his face again, the one he gets when he is soaking up new information. "Interesting," he says. "I must remember that."

John can't help the small smile that grows on his lips as he regards Sherlock from across the wobbly table that they are sitting at. He wonders what it must have been like for the boy to grow up the way he has. What must it be like for Sherlock—constantly in desperate need of stimuli and information and knowledge and attention—to live in a cold, lonely silence every day of his life when he goes home? The loneliness in Sherlock's world must be crushing. When John thinks about the way that Sherlock sits at the back of his class and stays invisible, he suddenly realizes that it is because that is what Sherlock is used to. He is used to not being seen, and John thinks about how that must be suffocating to someone like Sherlock. John wonders if Sherlock can even remember a time when he was touched by a caring, nurturing hand. He thinks about that as he stares at Sherlock while the boy fiddles with his coffee cup, curly head bent low: for a child to go without hugs or kisses or soothing words while he is growing up. It turns John's stomach, the thought of such neglect. He understands now why Sherlock is always so surprised when John gives him something, when John goes out of his way to think about him. Sherlock has never experienced that kind of attention and John can tell by the way that Sherlock reacts to it that the boy believes he deserves every lack in his life.

Across from him, Sherlock shifts uncomfortably in his seat under John's silent scrutiny and the man can see that he looks almost as if he is preparing to leave, unable to stand the pity John is certain Sherlock can feel coming off of him in waves. John doesn't want that, though. So he just clears his throat and licks his lips, trying to bring his thoughts back from the morose turn they have taken.

"Any siblings?" he asks, pushing forward with the conversation. They're already in it now; things have been said that can't be taken back. Besides, Sherlock knows so much about John that he thinks it's only fair that he knows about Sherlock as well, even if the information wrenches at his heart. Especially if it wrenches at his heart.

"Siblings?" Sherlock asks.

"Yeah."

The brunet doesn't say anything for a long while. In fact, he looks very much like he doesn't want to talk about it. John thinks it strange that Sherlock will tell him about his alcoholic father and his absentee mother but when asked about his siblings Sherlock gets uncomfortable.

"Yes," Sherlock finally answers him, after some time. "One. An older brother."

"Oh," John says, because Sherlock looks like he is done talking about it. But there is something there and John can't let it go. "How much older?"

"Mycroft is around your age," Sherlock answers, and he turns on his phone to fiddle with some app or another and doesn't look up at John.

"So I guess you're not close?" John pushes.

When Sherlock realises that John isn't going to let this go, he sighs heavily and glares at the screen of his phone. "My brother moved away when I was very young," he explains without looking up. "I…don't really know him. He has stayed most of my life. I see him from time to time, but usually only when he is bailing me out of some sort of trouble. That's the only time he ever comes around. He seems to see me as nothing but a nuisance and someone who is purposefully trying to single-handedly bring down his career." Sherlock scowls down at his phone as if it is the brother that they are speaking of.

John can't help the smile that comes to his face, hearing Sherlock complain about something that John knows could very easily be true. Sherlock has no scruples. "Are you?" he asks because he really wants to know. "Trying to bring down his career, I mean."

At that Sherlock scoffs and throws his phone down onto the top of the table. It makes their cups rattle. "Please," he says, glaring at John. His voice is irritated and annoyed. "He is on his way to running the British government. As if anything I could do would possibly stand in his way." He shakes his head and his dark curls brush along his forehead and his ears, looking almost black in the dim light of the coffee house. "He just likes to think that I enjoy making things hard for him. Which I kind of do," he amends with a smirk. "But he shouldn't flatter himself—I don't cause trouble solely with him in mind."

"So do you get into a lot of trouble often, then?" John can't help but ask. Sherlock has made mention of a few incidents in the past and John can figure as much. Sherlock is a non-conformist if John has ever seen one, and he has heard whispers and rumours passing from teacher to teacher at the school, but he hasn't ever put much stock into it.

"Often enough for him to detest me," is Sherlock's vague answer. "Although, to be fair, I think it wouldn't take much for that to happen, anyways." The teen pauses and looks at John for a long moment, a deep stare that feels like it penetrates to John's very core. He seems to decide something because when he begins to speak again he looks away from John and his voice is small.

"I, ah…had a problem with drugs," he confesses quietly and John is surprised, to say the least. The boy sitting in front of him seems far too intelligent, far too _young_ for something like that. "Cocaine," Sherlock clarifies. "It got very bad, very quickly. Before Mycroft stepped in and placed me in a rehab facility, there were a few…incidents that had to be covered up or taken care of. Nothing too major, I don't know why he has to complain about it so much." Sherlock pauses again and John knows that look that crosses his face, has seen it only a handful of times on the boy but there is no mistaking it. It is sadness.

"He can't understand why I'm not more like him," Sherlock continues, fiddling with the edge of his coffee cup now and not looking at John. "Motivated, ambitious, driven, successful. By my age he was in a better school, getting better marks, and he expects the same out of me. He thinks that just because we are brothers then that must mean that we share similar experiences during childhood. Therefore he feels that I should have the same drive as he does and that my raising shouldn't be the reason that I am not like him. If he could become successful, he believes that I should, too."

That's the stupidest thing that John has ever heard in his life, and it angers him that the one person who can be there for Sherlock in his life, isn't. "Yes, but your father wasn't a drunk when Mycroft was a child and your mother was around to raise him," he argues, furious.

Sherlock simply shrugs. "He doesn't see how any of that factors in when someone is as intelligent as we are. 'Emotions have no bearing over how you make your life turn out'," he states in a pompous, snooty voice that has John smiling.

"God," John says, for lack of anything better. "Your family sounds like they're something else." He doesn't say he's sorry again because he knows that Sherlock will only ask him why.

Across the table from him, Sherlock gives him a knowing smile. "You don't have to tell me," he agrees, and the two look at each other over their styrofoam cups for a moment before they both laugh.

The conversation moves on to happier things.

For a long time, John is content. His relationship with Mary still isn't good but the more time he is able to spend out of the house—around Sherlock—the better his moods are, and he doesn't feel like spoiling his good days with a row. So the two dance around each other at home, making small talk whenever they are in the same room, and dinners are no longer a battleground—something John is immensely grateful for. So even though things aren't sorted yet, John takes this all as a hopeful sign that they are headed that way.

One evening, on a night when he isn't meant to meet up with Sherlock, Mary tells him over dinner that she ran into a doctor during lunch who owns her own clinic across town. She tells him that the two had hit it off right away, talking about Mary's duties at the clinic she is currently working in and the patient load. Apparently the doctor had been impressed with Mary's skill and had asked if Mary would be interested in a position with them. As she tells John all of this she lights up happily, saying that the pay is so much better, as are the hours, and that they are a specialty clinic—something that Mary has always been interested in.

"I gave her my number and she said that she would ring me once she discussed it with the other doctor who runs the clinic with her," she tells John excitedly as they finish up with dinner. "They want to fill the position quickly, though, so I doubt they'll give me another chance at this opportunity if I decide not to take it or I miss it."

They carry their empty plates to the kitchen and he helps her wash up, listening quietly as she goes on about the job. After a while she pulls her hands out of the sink filled with warm, soapy water, and dries them.

"I need to use the loo, can you wipe off the table?" she asks and is gone before John can say anything.

He moves back into the dining room with a dish rag in one hand and his cane in the other, supporting his leg. Mary's mobile is still lying on the tabletop, so John moves it over to wipe the wooden surface clean. While he is scrubbing he hears the sound of a phone going off and looks up to see that Mary's mobile has lit up, an unlisted number ringing through.

John is surprised that the doctor would ring Mary so quickly after just meeting with her, and so late in the day, but he thinks that maybe they just made a quick decision and need her to start immediately. He decides to pick it up so that Mary doesn't lose her chance at the position.

"Hello," he says when he answers it and he is confused when he hears a male's voice on the other end of the line. Hadn't Mary said the doctor was a woman?

"Oh, hi there. I, er, was looking for Mary Watson."

There is a sinking feeling in his gut that he knows all too well, one that matches the look he is sure is on his face. "Can I ask who this is?" He tries not to let his voice crack.

"Oh, of course!" the man replies. "My name is Marcus and I met Mary this morning while we were getting coffee. We got to talking and she said that she was new in town so I told her about some of the community events that are coming up. There was a class that she seemed interested in that I teach and we exchanged numbers so I could keep her up to date on the schedule." The man laughs nervously over the line. "But then I realised that I had given her the wrong number, so I just wanted to ring and leave her the correct one."

John is silent for so long on the other end of the line that the man over the mobile has to ask if he is still there.

"Yeah, sorry, mate," John says, but the words taste awful in his mouth. "Give me the number, will you?" His fingers are numb as he writes it down with a biro that he finds sitting on top of a pile of post at one end of their dinner table.

"Thanks," the man says over the line, but his voice is uneasy now. "I'll, uh…I'll just wait for her to ring," he finishes awkwardly, as if trying to tell John that he won't phone again, in case this turns out to be what he thinks it is.

"Ta," John says because he appreciates the respect, at least—from a complete fucking stranger, if not from his wife—and rings off. He spends a few long moments staring down at the envelope that has some bloke's number that he took down for his wife, and he doesn't really recognize his own writing. It looks jagged and pointy.

When Mary wanders back into the room John can only look up at her, his face blank but his insides roiling uncomfortably.

She notices him staring and turns to him with a little smile. "What?" she asks unknowingly.

"You're mobile rang," John says simply, calmly. He purses his lips and raises his chin. "I answered it."

"John!" Mary says, and she has the audacity to look affronted. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I thought it would be the doctor that you told me about, the one with the job offer. But instead it was some ruddy bloke named Marcus. Who the fuck is Marcus, Mary?"

"You had no right to answer my phone, John!" Mary yells at him, looking furious now. There are twin spots of dark colour high on her cheeks and her blue eyes are slits as she glares at him. "You promised you would stop doing stuff like that!"

"Well, apparently I can't, can I? Because the minute I do you're off giving your number out to ex-lovers and strangers you meet in queues for coffee!

"It's not like that!" Mary argues. "He is part of a class I was thinking about taking, something that will get me out of the house and meeting people that I can make friends with."

John barks a course laugh. "Really, Mary? Because you have to admit that it seems a little suspicious, doesn't it?"

"Oh my God, John, you have become so paranoid!" Mary shouts, exasperated. "Am I not even going to be allowed to have friends, now? Is that what you want? To keep me here, in this house all day long, only going out for work, while you're off with Mike to the pub every night of the week?"

"I'm not off every night of the week," John feels the need to clarify, as if that is the priority in their conversation, but Mary doesn't even listen to him.

"You sound crazy, getting suspicious over every little thing that you _think_ that you find on me!" Her hands are fluttering about frantically now, unable to stay still. "He teaches a yoga class and he didn't have any business cards. He was there with his assistant and they were discussing their next class schedule! I don't know what else to tell you to get it through your thick skull that you are acting absolutely mad!"

John stares at her for a moment, breathing deeply to try to calm himself. A part of him wants to believe her—trust her—wants to so very badly. He has been made a fool of enough in the past to know that Mary lies as easily as she breathes, though, and he reminds himself that he can't trust her for a second.

She is right about one thing, though. He replays their conversation over in his head, hears her very solid—if untruthful—argument and he knows that he _is_ acting paranoid. He wonders when it was that he started seeing every man in the world as someone his wife would leave him for, and he finds that he is slightly disgusted with himself.

He never used to be this way. He had been so self-assured once, so confident. Now, he finds out a man is ringing up his wife to give her a schedule for a yoga class and he automatically thinks that they are fucking. He doesn't want to live his life this way. He is tired. So very tired.

So he just nods his head, giving her one last look. She is staring at him from across the room, watching him to see what his next move will be.

He surprises them both.

"His number is on here," he tells her, tossing the paper onto the table. "I'm going to the pub."

Once he is in his car he pulls out his mobile and shoots off a text with steady hands and a guilt-free conscience. He could definitely use a drink at the moment, but he thinks there's something else in his life now that might be just as helpful.

 _Sent: Know we don't usually meet tonight but can you come to the coffee house? I need someone to talk to._


End file.
